


Date night

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dating, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27233977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: Jon and Daenerys prepare for a date night in.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 22
Kudos: 287





	Date night

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains references to the current pandemic. Although nothing in depth, please do not read if this makes you uncomfortable.

“Are you ready?” Daenerys calls.

“Almost!” Jon replies. He is in front of the mirror. He surveys himself; from his slicked back hair to his crisp white shirt to the new black jeans to his brown leather shoes. He feels smart, and casual. Like he’s trying - but not _too hard._ Still, he finds himself fiddling with a loose lock of hair as he hurries back to the kitchen.

_Pizza._ He can smell it in the air, the warm scent wafting through the flat. He prefers pepperoni. Daenerys likes chicken. Jon said: “Let us compromise and agree on chicken.” It made her smile. He thinks about it as he opens the oven: how her lips tugged back and her eyes glimmered and her hands brushed through her silver hair, dragging it over her shoulder as she cocked her head. It’s the small things, he knows, that makes his heart beat faster.

“Did you set the table yet?”

Jon shuffles the pizza onto a plate as he peers through the doorway. He can see her inspecting the cutlery and the glasses. She is in a small, red dress. The hemline digs into her thighs when she bends over to correct the tablecloth. He imagines the fabric tearing. But it never does.

“No napkins,” Jon calls before she can open the pack.

“Right,” Daenerys replies, “I forgot.” She puts them away. “Water?”

“Please. And beer.”

“No beer,” Daenerys says with a wry smile, and Jon grimaces:

“Right, I forgot,” and sends his six-pack a bitter look. She is doing a _dry October._ When she first announced it, Jon insisted those kinds of things are for January only. “Who in their right mind,” he said, “is living through a pandemic _sober?”_ and Daenerys replied:

“The same kind of person who intends to learn French whilst locked up?” and it made him shut up. His Duolingo has been sending increasingly threatening messages since the end of June. He’s starting to forget how to pronounce _baguette._

So Jon relented, promised to do _drytober_ with her - and then he forgot. He bought wine and beer and a bottle of vodka. Every day it tempts him, and every day he manages to go to bed with a BAC of 0.0%. He feels like a saint.

“Candles?” Daenerys asks, and Jon is about to say:

“No,” when he thinks: Daenerys, in her red dress, the sun setting, the flames flickering, the orange glow lighting up her features. It’s romantic. It’s _date night._ So he says: “Of course,” and quickly searches every drawer in the living room. He finds a pack of half-burned tealights hidden between the Christmas decorations. It’s with a proud smile that he presents them to her and lights them. “And people say men don’t know how to set a mood,” he says.

“I’m very impressed,” Daenerys lies, “can I trust you with the music?”

“Can you _trust me?”_ Jon makes a point of flicking through every vinyl he owns. He selects the very best for her perusal: Frank Sinatra, The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Elvis Presley, Sigur Ros, The Strokes. He holds them up, one by one, and Daenerys pretends to consider each of them before, inevitably, asking:

_“Do you have Abba?”_

Jon opens every window. He drags his record player into the sill. He puts on _‘Waterloo’,_ and they dance, pretending to remember the lyrics, then ‘ _Dancing Queen’,_ that they know every syllable of, followed by _‘Gonna Sing You My Love Song’._ By the time they’re singing: “You’re my love, you’re my angel,” and Jon feels ready to confess to the six-pack, Daenerys gasps:

“The pizza is going cold!”

Jon rushes to the kitchen. The crust is hard. The cheese looks stiff. When he puts it on the table, he pretends to be upset: “Ah, it was perfect!” and avoids admitting that he prefers it cold. Daenerys looks upset, but only for a moment - it’s hard to frown when Abba is screaming _‘Mamma Mia!’_

“Water?” Jon asks, and Daenerys replies:

“Yes please,” and pours herself a glass, followed by: “A slice?” and Jon nods:

“A large one,” and cuts the pizza into six.

They serve themselves. They raise their glasses. They look into each other’s eyes. For a second, they are quiet.

The air is warm. The street is empty. The distance between them is about fifteen feet, yet to Jon it barely feels like fifteen inches. Not when sat on the balcony, facing Daenerys on the other side, their tables matched to perfection; same cutlery, same plates, same burnt candles, same lacking napkins, same tap water in the same IKEA glasses. They are apart, but they are together.

Jon says it out loud: “Apart, but together,” and he raises his glass high.

Daenerys laughs: “Together,” and they knock their drinks to the metal of the balcony. The sound echoes through the banister.

They eat and chat as the sun sets. They make plans for the week: what dinners to cook when, what movies to watch what nights, and:

“What wine to drink with the cheese board Friday?” Jon asks innocently.

Daenerys groans: “You’re playing dirty!” followed by: “Get the beer, then.”

Jon throws her a can. She catches it perfectly in one hand and announces her plans to be a baseball player. They joke about it as they drink, as they dance, as they sing. Abba becomes Bob Dylan, and Bob Dylan becomes Elvis, and as Jon throws Daenerys a third beer, she’s so tipsy that she forgets the lyrics to _‘She Loves You’_ by the Beatles.

“You’re embarrassing,” Jon laughs, before forgetting the chorus himself, drunk on happiness and pizza and love. He could kiss her, he thinks, a hundred times over and never get tired of the feeling. He could hold her, he muses, every night and still long for her in the morning.

And he could love her, every night, like now, leaned over the balcony as they watch the stars and make up constellations. Lynx becomes _the snake,_ and Cassiopeia _the seagull,_ and:

“That one,” Jon says, pointing at random, “that one is us.”

“That’s an airplane,” Daenerys laughs.

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is! It’s _blinking,_ Jon, and _moving.”_

“That means nothing.”

“You’re drunk,” Daenerys smiles, “let me tug you to bed.”

Jon collapses on the sofa. He leaves the balcony doors open. As he curls up under a blanket, the fabric warm and the air around him cool, he can hear her on the other side, still singing as the vinyl stops playing:

_“With a love like that, you know you should be glad.”_

**Author's Note:**

> A short sweet one today - I hope you enjoyed it! I can't believe how close we are to this month being over.. I will need a big glass of wine to celebrate! Thing is - I don't even have time to do all the stories DragonandDirewolf and I have got planned. I will have to do some updates in November as well - oops!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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